


Extra Base Hits

by MachaSWicket



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, One-Shot, Shameless Smut, as in baseball jerseys not the state, jersey-fic, porsches and sunsets, sexing across america
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-15 03:04:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4590627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MachaSWicket/pseuds/MachaSWicket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY:  <i>It’s not until the fifth week into their summer road trip (which Felicity has taken to calling -- mentally -- their sexing across America tour) that Oliver comes before she does.</i>  Just absolute and total PWP. Please read responsibly.</p>
<p>REQUESTED BY FanMomMer -- hope you like this! ;)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Extra Base Hits

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mersayseh](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=mersayseh).



It’s not until the fifth week into their summer road trip (which Felicity has taken to calling -- mentally -- their sexing across America tour) that Oliver comes before she does.

She’s actually impressed that it took as long as it did, considering the amount of sex they’re having. Some small, secret part of her has been at least a little surprised that the Oliver in her bed is a generous, enthusiastic, attentive lover, since she has -- solely in her capacity of his (former) EA and (current and always) Team Arrow information gatherer and scrubber of internet rumors, of course -- come across some lurid tales of Ollie’s sexual adventures.

She _knows_ that she’s in love with Oliver, and that Oliver is not Ollie, but she’d just wondered, on occasion, whether Oliver’s vast and varied sexual experience would translate into... not _disinterest_ , necessarily. And nothing about cows and free milk, more like... currency devaluation. Like he’s had so much sex that he’s basically Zimbabwe, where it costs like 5,000,000 Zimbabwean dollars to buy a loaf of bread. Like it would take five million orgasms to get his sexual attention. Something like that.

Boy, was she wrong. From that one solemn, soul-destroying night of passion in Nanda Parbat to their first few weeks of togetherness, Oliver has proven over and over (and _over_ and over) that he loves her, body and soul. And he’s taken his sweet, torturous time showing her that, always, always making sure she comes at _least_ once before he does.

Until tonight.

And while he looks torn between knee-shaking bliss and pink-cheeked embarrassment, Felicity is mostly just flattered. Because really, he brought it on himself. 

A week ago, during their two nights in Albuquerque, they’d gone to an Isotopes game. Felicity had never in her life given much thought to baseball, never mind _minor league_ baseball. Hell, she didn’t even really understand the farm system until she spent three torturous hours in small, plastic seats, baking in the Albuquerque sun as her boyfriend cheerfully explained baseball in painful, unnecessary detail.

God, _so_ many rules, so little action.

So Felicity just focused on the vast junk food options, moving from cotton candy to cracker jacks to a _batting helmet full of nachos_. Until sometime... in the middle of all the boring non-action on the field, the overly large screen in the outfield started blaring major league highlights.

Turns out, there’s a guy named Justin Smoak playing for the Toronto Blue Jays, and he’d hit a home run. And Oliver? He _loved_ it. Something about his favorite sport and his favorite girl sharing something got him _all_ worked up. When they got home that night, he’d tossed her onto the bed that night and gone down on her for at _least_ a half hour.

A week later, a FedEx package showed up on the doorstep of the little lakeshore house they’re renting in Austin.

Oliver had tried to make it seem like a birthday present for _her_ , but Felicity’d known as soon as she unwrapped the bright blue jersey with **SMOAK** across the back that this was all about Oliver.

Still, she’d bided her time, nodding thoughtfully along when he made noises about _we’ll frame it_ and _it’s such a fun coincidence_ and _I knew you’d love it_. Because she knows him, and she could read the heated looks he’d been giving her the entire time she sat and held the jersey in her lap -- she _knew_ he wanted to see her in it.

Or, more accurately, he wanted to peel it off of her.

So earlier tonight, she’d taken a little longer in the bathroom getting ready for bed. And when she’d emerged to find Oliver sprawled on the bed in his boxer-briefs, one arm tucked under the pillow beneath his head, warm, bronze skin glowing in the dimly lit room, well, she’d been wearing the SMOAK jersey.

_Just_ the Smoak jersey.

And it’d been so, _so_ gratifying to hear the choking noise he made as he lurched upright, eyes wide and skimming down her body.

She’d grinned at him -- well, okay, maybe _smirked_ a little -- and said, “I wanted to thank you for my gift.”

Things had escalated very quickly after that. Oliver’d unbuttoned the jersey, then begged, his tone a little desperate, for her to leave it on while he fucked her. 

He’d been massively turned on from the moment he slid home, thrusting roughly, his jaw clenched with the effort to keep in control. So she’d rolled him onto his back and slowed things down, grinding slowly on him, barely moving even as his fingers dug into her hips through the loose fabric of the jersey. His eyes had been wild, his body tense and desperate beneath hers, so she’d leaned back, resting her hands on his thighs, arching her body, and had recited Justin Smoak’s stats.

“Three for five last night,” she’d murmured, “with a double and a home run.”

Oliver had begged her to stop, to _move_ , to do something, but she kept circling her hips slow and deliberate, rattling off baseball statistics, as his body writhed beneath her. “Isn’t this supposed to calm you down?” she’d teased. “Smoak’s got an on-base percentage--”

“Feli--” he’d interrupted, his fingers digging into her, his hips jerking up, jerking-- “ _Felicity_!”

& & &

It takes him a few moments to come down, his breathing ragged, his body pooling on the mattress. But his eyes are troubled. “Felicity, I’m--”

“If you apologize that I got you off, I’m gonna be really pissed,” she warns with a grin. And, yeah, she’s still incredibly turned on, still aching for more even as he softens inside her, but _that_ was most definitely worth it.

His warm palms slide beneath the open jersey, smoothing up her spine and urging her to bend over him. Felicity complies, their lips crashing together as she grinds a little, getting a little pressure on her clit even as he nips and sucks at her lips. She’s lost to it, moaning into his mouth, when he wraps his arms tight around her back and sits up. 

Her breasts slide against his chest, the sparse hair tickling her nipples, and her hips jerk against him. 

“Hold on,” Oliver murmurs, and then he’s lifting her off of him and tossing her onto the mattress. She lands with a bounce, laughing and turned on and getting really impatient for an orgasm.

Oliver follows her quickly, kneeling between her legs, running his palms up her thighs to urge her to spread further for him. But then he turns his attention to the SMOAK jersey. The blue material is twisted beneath her back, and he takes what she considers a _ridiculous_ amount of time to adjust it. Because she's _aching_ for it at this point.

“You look really good, Felicity,” he tells her. “ _Really_ good.”

Then he spends several long, torturous minutes on her breasts and abdomen -- licking, sucking, nipping. Leaving damp trails along her skin that make her break out into goosebumps. Gently tugging on her hard nipples with his teeth until she moans and arches into his touch, her hips shifting restlessly beneath him.

“Shhhhh,” he soothes, his hot breath skimming across her rib cage as he shifts lower.

“Oliver,” she pants, “please.”

His grin is predatory when he pauses to look up at her. “Impatient,” he comments.”

She nods, her hair sliding against the pillow. “I want your tongue on me,” she agrees.

Oliver groans, leaning down to press his hot, open mouth against her. The heat of his breath, the dampness of his tongue, the vibration of his moan, the occasional scratch of his stubble against her sensitive skin -- it revs her up quickly. He steadies her with a warm palm against her inner thigh, moving in small, slow circles even as she jerks and writhes beneath him.

As he’s been every time before, Oliver is relentless in his attention. He reads her body so amazingly well, reacts to what she likes so quickly and enthusiastically that she’s hanging on by a thread in a matter of minutes. It doesn’t hurt that she’s been turned on since she walked out of the bathroom and provoked such a reaction from him -- seeing Oliver Queen panting for her is a huge turn-on.

Still, as good as his tongue feels on her clit, as perfect as the pressure is when he thrusts two fingers inside of her, as much as she wants to dive into the warm, pulsating bliss of her orgasm, she _also_ wants to draw it out. She wants to feel like this for a while -- this panting, pulse-pounding, body-buzzing state of grace. 

“Oliver,” she gasps, and he understands immediately. 

He eases back, turns everything he’s doing down a notch. Slower, smaller thrusts of his fingers, lighter circles of his tongue against her clit, and she floats along, laughing a little from sheer, overwhelming sensation. She runs a hand along her abdomen, shivering under her own touch, and he moans against her. 

And that’s enough to push her past this plateau. “Oh, yes,” she says, her hips lifting and straining against him, and he instantly redoubles his efforts. Her shoulders pull back, pressing against the mattress for leverage as she grinds against his mouth. She knows it won’t take much more -- _he_ knows it, and he curls his fingers inside of her just right, sucks her clit between his lips, flicking his tongue, and she is _gone_.

Waves of pleasure take her body, and she moves with them, muscles trembling, back bowing off the bed. She’s saying something, probably, but she doesn’t know what. She jerks beneath him when he huffs a laugh against her clit, and he eases off, pressing the flat of his tongue against her soothingly as she floats, slowly, slowly, back to earth.

Oliver shifts, landing on his back beside her, his head level with her hip and his hand smoothing along her leg as she comes down. When she glances down at him, he’s swiping the back of his hand against his mouth, and the sight makes her clench with renewed lust, even though she’s still breathing hard, still gripping fistfuls of the duvet. “God,” she pants, her body humming and tingling, “that was gooooooood.”

Oliver rolls onto his side, his warm arm landing across her legs, and his erection pressing against her knee. Well. She’ll need to take care of _that_. He kisses her hip, his mouth open, his tongue snaking out to slide against her skin, and she shivers. 

“Up,” she orders, releasing the duvet to tug at his shoulder. “C’mere.”

He’s on his hands and knees so quickly she’s not sure how he managed it, crawling his way up towards her, and she moans at the sight. Oliver smirks. “Hey,” he says, hovering above her.

She reaches up to cup his face, sliding her palm down his neck, and then down onto his chest. “On your back,” she orders.

“Yes, ma’am,” he murmurs, flopping down beside her. He reaches up and tugs the pillow closer, bunching it up beneath his head, preferring to watch her for _this_ , she knows. But she has no intention of riding him -- at least not yet.

Pushing herself up to sit beside him, Felicity is honestly surprised that the SMOAK jersey is still at least nominally on her. It’s unbuttoned and hanging off of one shoulder, the bright blue material a sharp contrast against her pale skin. She shrugs it off, letting it drop to the mattress beside her hips, watching with amusement as Oliver’s gaze follows the movement of her breasts. She waits for his attention to shift back to her face before she licks her lips. Slowly. And he groans, shifting restlessly on the mattress.

“Stay really still,” she murmurs, beginning to lean down towards his cock. Then she pauses and gives him a wicked grin. “If you can.”

“Felicity,” he moans, before she even touches him. It’s a huge aphrodisiac, having this strong, stubborn man writhing beneath her. Despite her very recent orgasm, she’s already turned on again.

She shifts, getting comfortable sitting beside him, then wraps her hand around his erection, squeezing it experimentally. His hips jerk beneath her, his hand landing on her knee. “Spread a little,” she requests, and he shifts, giving her room to slide her left forearm between his legs for leverage, as she leans in and drags her tongue up his length.

“So good,” he mumbles, his thighs tense beneath her. She can tell he’s trying not to move, like she requested, and she wonders how long until he breaks.

She presses an open-mouthed kiss to the tip. “You taste pretty good,” she answers, her lips shifting against his hot skin while she talks. He throbs in her hand and she moves quickly, angling his cock with her free hand so she can slide him into her mouth.

Oliver makes a really gratifying choking sound, and his fingers tighten on her knee, but he doesn’t move. Felicity rewards him with a gentle suck, then starts to move, using her hand and her mouth to establish a slow, torturous rhythm. She swirls her tongue along his length, drawing muttered curses and something that’s probably supposed to be her name from him.

When she glances up the length of his body, Oliver’s watching her with half-lidded eyes, his mouth hanging open, and one hand wrapped so tightly around the headboard that his bicep is bulging. She pulls back, catching her breath while she maintains the rhythm with her hand on his wet cock. 

“So fucking gorgeous,” he pants. “So hot, Felicity. I can’t--” He shakes his head, arching a little when she runs her thumb along the sensitive head. 

Felicity is not expecting him to half-sit, his abs straining, and reach for her hips. “Oliver, what--?”

“You need to come here,” he demands, eyes wide, pupils blown. 

“You want me to stop?” Felicity asks. And if she’s being honest, she’s a little disappointed at the thought. She wants to bring him off with her mouth, watching him fall apart beneath her. 

“No!” Oliver shakes his head a little frantically. “God, no. Just--” He tugs her hips, “shift around. I want my mouth on you.”

Felicity flushes. _Oh_. They’ve done all manner of things with each other, and Oliver knows her body possibly better than she does at this point. But she’s never ridden his face. She’s a little apprehensive, but also a lot turned on by the idea. “Okay,” she says, haltingly.

Oliver notices -- of course he does -- and the glaze of lust fades some. “Hey, hey,” he says, his grip on her hips shifting, rubbing smooth, comforting circles against her skin. “I wanna make you feel as good as you’re making me feel, okay? Trust me.”

She does -- it’s not even a question. So she sits up and kisses him. Which escalates quickly -- desperate tongues and nipping teeth -- until she pulls back, pushing his chest to get him to lay back down. He whips the pillow from beneath his head and tosses it overboard. Which shouldn’t be hot, but totally is. Maybe it’s the way he never breaks eye contact as he waits for her.

Felicity arches an eyebrow. “You ready?”

The grin Oliver gives her in response is full of lustful promises. “Are you?”

With a shiver, Felicity goes up on her knees beside him. Oliver’s hands land on her hips, guiding her as she moves to straddle his face, knees digging into the mattress near his shoulders. She leans forward, her nipples skimming across the skin of his abdomen and making her groan. She double checks her balance before bracing her forearm on the mattress beside his hip. 

His body is big and warm and solid beneath hers, and it’s comfortingly familiar and erotically new at the same time. She shifts against him, slow and deliberate, and grins when his quads tighten visibly. 

Felicity’s got her free hand wrapped around his cock, guiding it back between her lips when Oliver murmurs, “So fucking gorgeous.” His hot, wet tongue licks a stripe along her skin before he settles into teasing her clit. Felicity moans around him and his hips jerk slightly. 

She's still getting used to this position, but Oliver’s holding her steady with his big palms flat on her thighs, his fingers tightening rhythmically, and she relaxes into it. Squeezing the base of his cock with her hand, she sucks a little harder, moving a little faster. He matches her pace, alternating between fucking her with his tongue and teasing her clit. 

She tries not to grind down on his face, but it’s a losing battle. Her hips are moving of their own accord, reacting to the pleasure he’s giving her with his mouth. And the more she moves against him, the more desperate the sounds he’s making become, like he’s getting off on her reaction to his mouth. It’s a closed loop of escalating sensation -- her moans of pleasure make him thrust up into her mouth and suck on her clit, which makes her moan harder. 

Oliver shifts beneath her, one hand moving from her thigh to her -- _Oh_! He circles her clit with his fingers and thrusts his tongue inside of her and she has to pull off of his cock for just a second because her pulse is hammering in her head and she can’t breathe and she’s going to--

“Oliver!” she gasps, back arched so hard that her breasts and ribcage are pressing down into his firm, hard body as she’s lost in the waves of her orgasm. 

His hands are on her ass, squeezing and rolling the flesh as she comes back down. He’s so close to orgasm that he’s shaking beneath her, and Felicity doesn’t even bother to catch her breath before she sucks his cock back into her mouth. 

This time, he moans and thrusts up into her without much self-control. She relaxes her jaw, running her tongue along his length as he moves, using her hand around his base to control how far he can push into her mouth. 

“Felicity! I’m-- I’m gonna--”

She moves her head a little faster, squeezes him a little more firmly. Then his hands on her ass clench, and his body goes taut beneath her, and he’s coming with a garbled shout. She swallows as he pulses in her mouth, his hips jerking against her as he moans through his orgasm.

Then he relaxes, his body going slack beneath her. Felicity presses a final kiss to his cock, earning a pained groan from him, and then runs her tongue along her lips. Still shaky from her own orgasm, she pushes up onto her hands and knees to move off of him and turns. 

Oliver drags her down onto him. She lands with her hip on the mattress and her upper body on his chest, and he’s already kissing her, sloppy and wet and she can taste herself and he can probably taste himself.

“Mmmm,” she murmurs, easing back to smile at him.

“Holy shit,” he answers, grinning dopily.

She snickers a little and presses a kiss to his sweaty chest. “So are you ready to admit that jersey was for you all along?”

“What?” he asks, brow furrowed as she looks down at her. “I just--”

“Wanted sports and me to mix,” she interrupts. “I’m not complaining,” she says, reaching down the lift the crumpled fabric from beside his hip. “Though,” she adds with a frown, “we might need to wash it.”

He chuckles, a low rumbling in his chest where her ear is pressed against him, and she smiles into his pecs. “We can wash it,” he says, “but we’re _definitely_ framing it.”

Felicity tips her head back, meeting his gaze. “But why? You don’t care about the Blue Jays.”

His grin is more than a little suggestive. “That’s not what I think we should memorialize,” he says, his arm tightening around her. He presses a kiss to her temple. “I’m not gonna be thinking about baseball when I look at it,” he continues, and Felicity is getting turned on _again_ just from the dirty inflection in his voice. “I’m gonna think about your mouth on me, and my mouth on you, and--”

She reaches up and drags his face down to hers.

END

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: Justin Smoak’s line is from the June 12 game against Boston, because he’s a goddamn one man wrecking crew against us. ::pout::


End file.
